AT END OF PAIN.
TO PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
Thy darkened life is over. Thou hast found
That sweet, deep rest, which, through such lonesome days,
And nights when sleep forsook thee, thou didst praise
With envious longing. In Death's silence drowned,
No clamoring bells with their intrusive sound,
No noise of traffic in the city's maze,
Or hurrying footsteps through its stony ways,
Will vex the slumber in which thou art bound.
Tired head, tired heart, tired spirit, all at rest;
Since for the weary rest is Death's first boon,—
Rest; and then, after rest, the waking joy;
The sudden rapture, by new life possessed;
The swift, sure glory of the Heaven's high noon;
The long-lost mother's welcome to her boy!
